


A Hell of a Good Dream

by bowlofsurreal



Series: Beauty Is Mysterious As Well As Terrible [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Ghouls, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Fantasy, Sleep Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 11:06:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6608314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowlofsurreal/pseuds/bowlofsurreal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hancock confuses what his heart wants and what his dick wants, armed with a tin of mentats and a dirty mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hell of a Good Dream

They've been traveling since sun-up, beating the broken road with their worn boots and not stopping for anything but a quick piss in the bushes and a re-up on ammo with a passing vendor. Hancock's got the front of his overcoat flapped open wide and the August humidity is thick and sticky in the air.

He adjusts his tricorn hat on his head as Rocky crouches on a mossy cliff, peering out into the wastes in front of them. The sunset breaks the landscape apart as it hits the horizon, God rays burning through the dead limbs of trees all red and yellow.

Rocky's choppy black hair is stuck to the back of her neck with sweat, he thinks she must be boiling in the road leathers.

"Shit," a sigh. "I guess we should camp down," she announces finally.

Hancock likes that she's got a filthy mouth but whenever he slyly points it out with his black eyes twinkling, Rocky shoots back a snide remark like "sailors ain't got shit on me, sir" or "you fuckin' planning on washing it out with soap or what?"

Hancock laughs and shrugs his thin shoulders as he mutters something about "not enough soap in the wastes, ya dig?" But he can think of something he'd like to put in her mouth instead.

That's the thing, though, ever since he saw this broad walk into Goodneighbor with her happy dog and that determined look about her, he's been thinking about stripping her down, worshipping her bronzed body, her round ass with all his collective reverence—if the lady so desired, of course.

Little did he know he'd be following that round ass all over the Commonwealth, through hell and high water, fighting through raiders and super mutants and radioactive cults like "what did they think they were gonna do to this ugly mug?" (which, at the time, Hancock thought was a much funnier joke than a very rad'ed up Rocky was willing to hear as he dragged her, glaring, back to the Slog to pump her full of radaway and let her sleep off the fight).

He'd been through a lot in his relatively short life, but no matter how bad it got at times on the road, he always felt like she was worth it: a pre-war bright spot in his dimly lit world, a high he never had to come down from. He'd follow her from settlement to settlement, righting wrongs, exploring every basement cellar, abandoned shack and subway station that caught Rocky's eye with tiring thoroughness because they were helping people. That's what really mattered. And because if he's got her, everything else is cake.

Hancock half-pretends to be keeping watch as Rocky posts up by the door of a small abandoned house at the top of a hill. With his double-barrel shotgun drawn, he dares to sneak a peek at her fiddling with a bobby pin angled into the lock, brow furrowed and biting her bottom lip between her teeth.

Her mouth looks so wet and pink and he can only imagine how hot, burning hot and smooth she must be inside. His mouth salivates at the tiniest thought of sliding his scarred thumb past her lips, to rub the breadth of it against her tongue.

"Nice." He hears Rocky say as the creaky wood door clicks open with ease. He gestures wildly and gentlemanly for her to enter first. Rocky rolls her eyes and Hancock chuckles a throaty laugh.

Her deft fingers move to flick on her Pip-Boy light, casting a green shadow over the decaying remains of the small house.

"Home sweet home," he says as they clamber over littered paper towards a couch on the far end of the room to put down their backpacks and take a minute to actually relax and assess their surroundings.

Hancock leaves Rocky to go through their belongings for some decent food and secures the perimeter with mines, far enough out to give them a warning.

He can't say exactly where they are but close to the water because he can smell the sea salt in the air. He lets her take point on directions mostly, with that machine on her arm, but sometimes when he's high he asks to look over her shoulder at the map. He's not tall but he towers over her, the corner of his hat bonking into her head as he takes a real close look.

Distracted, she always smells amazing, like sweat and flowers and leather, the sour smell of burning from the plasma in that huge, insanely modded rifle she calls the 'Emerald City Bubbler' with a laugh. He doesn't know what that's a reference to but the way it makes her grin, he guesses something she's fond of.

Anyway, that's beside the point. What isn't beside the point is that whenever he's that close to her he can't help but think of sinking his teeth into the juncture of her neck, the soft tan skin peeking out from beneath her armor. Making her squirm and moan from his touch, the idea of making her wet from the smallest touches thrills him.

It's been a long time for her, over 200 years, she jokes all the time, and maybe it's been longer for him than usual, too. He's been extra distracted by other shit, like running and gunning and saving the Commonwealth.

When he comes back inside and props his shotgun by the door, Rocky's got some candles lit and a cracked bowl full of grilled radstag meat. It's not his favorite but after he eats, he's not hungry anymore, you know? It's his turn to stand watch so he makes another round after dinner and it's quiet, he's not too fussed about it.

When he comes back she's stripped down to her underwear, armor and leather jacket piled on the floor by the couch she's staked her claim to—her bedroll flipped open on top of it.

"Hey, that's a good look for you," He smirks, flipping open the mentats tin in his hand and popping one in his mouth. Rocky scoffs and flips him off over her shoulder, not even bothering to turn around. He tries not to blow it up too much, people get naked, he can respect that. Even he appreciates a minute to take off his colonial-era garb and jerk off at the end of a long day. It's the simple things.

He crosses the room and sits on a rust-colored armchair shoved into the corner with the couch.

He offers the tin to her and usually she passes, nonjudgmentally with a shrug. She's more of a cigarettes and whiskey kind of gal, and maybe the occasional dose of psychojet when the times get tough.

One day hanging out in the Statehouse, lounging on the couch and reading Grognak comics to each other, she'd happily tried some daytripper with him and got so close to his face when she talked he thought they could've made out like teenagers then and there with the way the excitement was buzzing in the air around them but he didn't make a move because she didn't make a move and that was reason enough for him.

But for weeks after that, whenever he was alone, he got fucking ripped out his mind and imagined her naked and writhing beneath him as he fucked her deep and slow, her strong, thick legs held apart by his ruined hands as he watched his fat cock disappear again and again into her wet cunt. He couldn't tell anyone how long that fantasy had stayed with him, and how often it popped into his mind at the most inopportune times. Like now.

He knows he shouldn't fantasize about her as much as he does, the way that he does—even though she flirts all the time and clutches his arm when she's "not scared" but "caught off guard" and jumps on his back when she wants to stop walking so they dissolve into laughter, wrestling on the ground until one of them admits defeat. He likes to flirt, he imagines she does too—but it doesn't mean it really carries any weight, especially in the wastes; not a lot of people like to get tied down by sex with friends and emotional attachment. And he can't imagine any world where some pre-war dime like her would want to get caught up with a ghoul like him.

So he cruises from place to place with her, uses it as an excuse to get high, flirt and fuck men and women all over the Commonwealth for a quick bit of fun and Rocky never judges him. She's always there to greet him with a big smile whenever he returns, straightening out his hat and flattening the lapels of his coat, teasing him about "really being a mayor among with the people."

Looking at the mentats, her face is unreadable for a second before she goes, "fuck it" and takes one between her fingers and pops it into her mouth.

Rocky smiles at him after and his cock twitches in his pants but he smiles back, anyway. "Atta, girl," he drawls as he leans back in his chair.

They settle in for the night, Rocky digs out a worn out book she'd found in the ruins of the Boston Public Library. She'd even made him help her drag a dead skirmisher out of the way to find it, muttering about how she wished the super mutant had turned into a "fuckin' pile of goo" but she found what she was looking for, a book by some guy named Dostoyevsky. Hancock made her spell it out like ten times. He had no idea how she remembered things like that, things from before she was cooped up in that ice box, but she did. She knew exactly what section to go to, exactly what destroyed aisle to look in. Hancock didn't question it.

Rocky throws on a big white t-shirt that comes down to her thighs and climbs into her bedroll with her book, her trusty silenced pistol right at her bedside.

Hancock takes the knife out of his coat pocket and flips it around in his hand, weighing the blade in his palm—his favorite way to pass the time.

He asks about the book again, the books she's always picking up here and there and bringing back to her HQ in Sanctuary. They must be weighing her down, right?

She explains reading clears her head, gets her out of the Wasteland and into something else for a bit and sometimes that's nice. He totally gets it, right, everybody's got a vice or twelve; everybody wants to shut it out for a little bit.

She used to be a lawyer before the war and he's not totally sure what that is but he knows it means she's smart, smarter than him when he pretends to be a pseudo-intellectual. If it means she lays down the law and keeps things in order, he thinks that's fitting. He's seen it himself in the Commonwealth in the little time they've spent together.

She says, "I got paid to argue with people" and he's bright enough to get that she's dumbing it down for him.

He nods, anyway, and goes, "Oh, I can see how you'd be good at that" and flashes her a wolfish grin.

Rocky guffaws and smacks him on the shoulder and says "fuck you" and maybe it's the mentats, maybe it's the humidity, maybe it's because that white t-shirt is brutally thin and he can see the outline of her nipples through it but he's not sure how she means it.

They sit like that for a while, it's hot even with the sun long set so he takes off his coat and shirt, sits in just his pants as Rocky reads quietly, candle light flickering all kinds of shapes over the walls.

If he were the kind of man to get embarrassed, he'd get coy about his bare skin but he ain't and he won't. He did it to himself, after all, and if there was one thing John Hancock was good at these days, it was putting his regrets behind him. He's a new, improved, more well-worn man than he was when he was just a smoothskin kid chasing ass and chasing highs. Now, he's the goddamn mayor; of the people, for the people. He can't imagine his life being any better than what he's made it.

People are born into families but people often make their own. Hancock thinks about that a lot when he travels with Rocky.

He steps outside for a smoke, mostly because he gets bored in the night like this and he's got to pick up some more mentats in the next town. He feels a droplet on his hand and as he peers up at the night sky, the rain coming down feels nice and cool on his hot skin. It breaches the humidity and finally he feels like he can take a deep breath.

Back inside, he shuts the door and drops the matches by the cluster of candles. Rocky is fast asleep with her book, flopped open beside her.

She rarely looks peaceful when she sleeps, usually a fitful and mumbling sleeper not fun to share a bedroll with but tonight, she seems calm. He picks up her book and means to set it by the couch but instead he flips it open to a random page as if he's gonna take a crack at it.

But the words swirl in front of him in the dim light and Hancock can't take his eyes off her sleeping form, the way her tits rise and fall with each breath, the dramatic dip of her waist when she turns onto her side.

He shuts his eyes for a second and imagines waking her up with his mouth, slowly lifting up that soft white fabric to reveal her naked body as she stirs awake, that confused look on her face, soft and sleepy. "Hi..." she says, almost a whisper.

"Hey, sister." He smiles disarmingly and traces little circles on her side with his rough fingertips.

Rocky lowers her eyelids in a hungry way and parts her full lips to say, "go on." He draws a line with his tongue down her neck, across the dip of her collarbone and down between her breasts, until he can take one of her perfect nipples into his mouth and bring it to a peak, gently biting and sucking.

She makes a sweet, quiet whimper and shifts her hips as she braces her hand against his bare shoulder.

Sometimes, he's a bend-a-friend-over-in-an-alleyway kind of guy with just his cock freed from the front of his pants and he thinks that's okay; hell, that's always a good time.

But sometimes, he likes to take it excruciatingly slow, take his time to get to know every inch of someone's skin, know them inside and out, to learn what makes them swear and moan and shake beneath him. He lives for that, and he can't imagine someone who he wants to spend that time with more than Rocky.

In the depths of his fantasy, Rocky's mouth is a soft 'o' as he switches from one nipple to the other, laving it with equal attention as his hands creep lower and lower, over the ridges of her ribs.

"You're fucking beautiful," he says, looking up at her with his dark eyes. Her nipples glisten as his tongue travels south, dipping into her belly button which makes her giggle. squirming away.

He laughs too but doesn't hesitant to move between her legs, staring up at Rocky for approval. She urges him on by wrapping her legs around his shoulders and when he presses his lips against the outside of her little homespun panties, she makes the most beautiful keening sound. He can taste the wetness through the thin fabric and it makes his cock ache.

The way her thighs fall apart to give him access, he carefully licks the inside of her thighs, circling closer and closer to the hem of her panties.

When she finally growls, picking her hips up towards his mouth, he chuckles and steady fingers finally peel away the underwear to reveal the mound of soft curls there. His fingers carefully spread her apart to admire her glorious cunt and how it shines in the candlelight. He dips his head down to give her a slow lick with his tongue flat, flicking the tip against her clit.

He swears, deeper than his mind's eye, he hears her moan his name, "John…" and it shakes some things loose.

Hancock opens his eyes to reality and sees that Rocky, across from him on the couch, is mumbling and stirring in her sleep and that his cock is so hard it's throbbing against his leg.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks, rubbing his eyes blearily. _Fuck_. He debates going for another smoke, getting some air and some distance between them.

"Hey," he hears her voice say and he turns to look at her shadowy figure in the flickering light, "you awake?" He can't really see her face but her voice is gentle.

"Supposed to be, right?" He chuckles back, sitting up in the armchair.

He supposes he should feel a little guilty but he doesn't, the way she sits up slowly, the way her energy pushes right through him, he can only focus on the electricity between them. Rocky untangles herself from her bedroll and almost trips steadying herself on her feet.

When she stands, she seems small: all barefoot and draped in white cotton. Not the General of the Minutemen, Knight of the Brotherhood, Savior of the Commonwealth. She just looks like Rocky, Raquel Cardona like she introduced herself that day in Goodneighbor with her chin up and a wicked smile, armored and bloody from the raiders crowding the Financial District.

"I had a hell of a good dream," she says, her voice sounds like burnt sugar and his chest tightens, clutching his heart in a vice grip.

As she steps towards him, slowly, silhouetted in soft light, casting a halo around her that makes it all feel unreal. Before he can even make a move, Rocky's climbing into his lap and his heartbeat picks up quick.

He's not used to being in this position, he's used to being all sly words and charming smiles and now it feels like Rocky's got him wrapped around her finger.

Her skin is so soft and warm and she's such a comforting weight on top of him. She's looking at him so intently like she's searching for something there in his black eyes. Hancock doesn't know if she finds what she's looking for but she doesn't seem to hesitate when she leans down and presses a kiss to his lips.

Heat surges through both their bodies. He can't help but seem eager as he kisses her back, sure that she can feel how hard he is against her thigh. They stay like that for a while, kissing slow and tender, rocking hips and wandering hands until he feels like he's memorized the taste of her mouth, the feeling of her lips.

His hands go to her waist as they break their kiss, Rocky is panting softly, lips wet and swollen. "Rocky?" He says, quietly, and this time, he's the one searching for an answer in her eyes. "We cool?"

Hancock sees her swallow hard even in the dim light and then she nods, taking his hat off his head and putting it on her own. She touches his face with a gentle kindness that breaks his heart. He can see the shine of her smile, crooked and honest, sunshine in her eyes. "More than fucking cool."


End file.
